Fight or Flight
by fragrantfields
Summary: Rusty knows he's got...issues. And he knows there's help out there...Sharon says so. He just can't see himself taking it, not if it means re-living his past. Warnings for references to past abuse, rated T for language


It was the touch of a hand, sometimes.

Other times, it was a particular odor of car freshener. Or Febreze. Febreze was the worst. Rusty always got a double whammy from that. Too many spritzes of Febreze on clothes his mom had been too cracked-up to take to the Laundromat.

Too many johns hoping they could spray away what they'd just done in the family sedan.

The guys at work (he wasn't sure when he'd stopped thinking of it as "where Sharon worked," but at some point, the office, the detectives, even the murder room had morphed into one word, "work," like Sharon's condo had become "home") didn't trigger him anymore. But let a strange man stand too close, with a particular stance or posture, and he was right back on the streets, choking back his fight or flight impulse and forcing a come-on smile.

He'd been afraid Sharon wouldn't get it. Those fight or flight feelings bubbled up every time she talked about therapy. He'd been through it once. Why would he want to relive it again?

He flushed, shame-faced even though he was alone in the waiting room. "Fight" had taken over one evening, and he'd gotten in her face, raised his voice, yelled at her like she was another pushy street kid stepping on his turf.

"Fine, why don't you do it, you think it's so easy? Let's talk about every shitty thing your husband ever did to you, every time your kids screwed up and you knew it was your own fault. Did you ever get something really wrong on your job? Somebody got hurt or killed because of you?" Her calmness, one of his favorite things about his foster mom, had just made it worse, pushing him to an ugly place.

"Go ahead, Sharon. Lay out all the shit you're ashamed of, and I'll ask "how do you feel about that?" It'll be—" His voice had started to crack before he could spit out a bitter "fun," and he'd fled to his room.

He had lain on his bed, throat tight and chest shaking. His mind started cataloguing ways out of the condo from old, not-quite-forgotten habits.

Sharon's knock made him jump hard enough to rattle the headboard. She'd stand there on the other side of the door, he knew, until he told her to come in. She wouldn't barge in…not Sharon. But she'd stay there all night if she had to. She didn't give up…about anything. Anything important, anyway.

She'd waited until he grumbled "come in" before turning the doorknob. She'd left the light off, too, letting in just enough from the hallway to keep from tripping over his shoes.

"You've got a good point, Rusty," she said as she sat on the edge of his bed. She picked up one of the throw pillows lying on the comforter and hugged it to her chest.

"I wouldn't want to—I _didn't_ want to rehash every crummy thing that ever happened to me. I didn't like the idea of therapy either."

His eyes opened wide in the dimness. _Sharon? Seeing a shrink?_

"So, when I went…" her voice sounded just a little shaky, and guilt washed over him. He hadn't wanted to push her this far. He braced himself for TMI. There were some things he was pretty sure he didn't want to know.

"So, when I went," she continued, "I said from the start what I wanted out of therapy. Mostly, I didn't want memories of…_things_, sending me into a tailspin." He heard her take a deep breath.

"It was more about how to deal with my reactions, things I could learn to do, to feel more in control, that a laundry list of what I'd been through."

He sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees. "So, you could tell your therapist what to do. But you're you, Sharon. I'm just a—" He broke off. He was just a…what did that asshole witch DDA call him? _Whore-phan._

"You're just a guy who's got me on his side, Rusty. I'll support however you want to do this. If you want to go in and stand on your head for fifty minutes, I'll back you up. As long as it helps how you've been feeling."

"And gets me through the trial."

He could see her nod. "That, too. Rios is going to keep being Rios. You're gonna need some coping skills for her."

"Anybody she deals with could use a whole freakin' _book_ of coping skills."

Her surprised giggle made him feel better than he'd felt all day.

"I can't argue with that." Her tone grew serious again. "Rusty, all I'm saying is that you get to set some boundaries, some ground rules. If all you want to work on is coping with flashbacks around certain people or things, that's okay. That's a good place to start."

He was glad for the darkness. If he saw tears in her eyes right now, he'd feel as much of an asshole as Rios.

"Is that what…is that what you did? The boundaries thing?"

""At first, yeah. I just wanted things that had happened to me, things I'd been through, to not get in my way." She toed one of his sneakers to one side. "I didn't want to be tripped up by old stuff."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I get that. The stupidest things, like movie popcorn, how that smells…."

"So, either you never go to a movie again, or you get some tools to deal with that." She shrugged. "You've got to go to therapy, Rusty. The going is mandatory. What you get out of it, though…that's your call. You're smart. I trust you to tell your therapist what you do, and don't, want to work on."

He flopped back in bed. His room felt like home again. _His and Sharon's home._

"I'll give it a try. But if she started griping about me holding back or whatever, you've got to back me up."

"I think I can agree to that. So, do we have a deal?" Her tone was lighter. It was good to hear.

"I_ said_ 'yes.' Yes, Captain Raydor, we have a deal."

"Good. I'll start working on finding the right person in the morning." She stood up, pillow still in hand.

"So, you're getting your way," he said, as seriously as he could. "How do you feel about that?" He smirked, then ducked as she tossed the pillow at him.

"I feel like I better find someone with plenty of experience with teenagers."

_It'd be nice, to not be freaked out by stupid stuff. _

To not pull away when Kris touched his hand. Or feel sick when he thought about things left unsaid.

.

* * *

.

"Hey, Rusty, come on in." His therapist opened the door with a smile. "How's it going?"

He took the chair closest to the bookshelf. Some of the little plastic figures, a mix of super-heroes, dinosaurs, and kids' meal toys, reminded him of real people. The cartoon-looking hyena especially put him in mind of DDA Rios.

"I've got a bunch of new restrictions, and this new DDA chick is driving me nuts."

"Hmm…sounds tough." She leaned back in her chair, like she had all day, not just fifty minutes, to listen to him. He liked that. "What would you like to work on today?"

His choice…he could work on his stress over the trial, or maybe on one of his triggers.

He could see the day coming when he might be able to work on sharing his past without feeling like he was going to throw up. But it didn't have to be today. It could be when he felt ready.

He liked that, too.


End file.
